


That we may meet and know

by ForTheLoveOfAll



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I suppose, Implied Mpreg, Kinda?, Kink Meme, M/M, Mentioned Kíli/Tauriel, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soulmates, The Power Of Love, Toddlers, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOfAll/pseuds/ForTheLoveOfAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo returns to the Shire, convinced that Thorin is dead. Meanwhile, Thorin recovers from his injuries only to find that his hobbit has apparently left him, not that he deserves any less after what he did. In their loneliness, both of them turn to the secret ways of their people...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A tragic ending

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gardening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/682108) by [The Feels Whale (miscellea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellea/pseuds/The%20Feels%20Whale). 
  * Inspired by [Felek](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007397) by [sunryder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder). 



> This is a prompt fill; the prompt itself can be found below. I was just too unsatisfied by the last movie's ending. It was heart-breaking u.u As was the book's ending. Which is why it inspired this story, thus the quote below  
> Concerning the story, I don't know what overcame me, but I like the idea of hobbits having their own language. I once saw someone use gaelic and it kinda fits. I can't speak gaelic and I only found those phrases on the internet. So, if they're wrong, please tell me. To see the translation, just hover over the text. ^^

> “No!”, said Thorin. “There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave now. Farewell!”
> 
> Then Bilbo turned away, and he went by himself and sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and, whether you believe it or not, he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.  
>  \- The Hobbit, p. 368 

~*~

He could feel the cold of the frozen waterfall seep into his bones. Bard had been right, winter was upon them. How naïve to think that they would all make it out alive. Fíli had been murdered and he did not want to think about Kíli’s fate. Only a month ago they still had been together and he had laughed at their antics. How very strange. And now he sat on the hard and unforgiving ice holding his dying soul mate. His anam cara who had finally returned to him after being lost to the dragon sickness. He wondered what he had done to deserve such punishment. He concentrated on the one lying on him. The blood gushed freely from the wound near Thorin’s heart. It was only a matter of minutes until he would either suffocate because his lungs filled up with the liquid or bleed out and succumb to shock. His rational mind knew that and yet his heart did not want to believe. Thus, he kept on trying to stem the steady flow that was slowly forming a puddle around them. He knew he was rambling, but Bilbo couldn’t accept this. The long way, the dangers they had faced, had it been all for nothing?

“Hush, dearest”, he heard Thorin’s broken voice whisper in an attempt to console him. “I would not see my last moments wasted.” He tried to breathe and Bilbo could see that his breaths had already grown shallower and quicker in an effort to supply his body with much-needed air. “Forgive me for what I have done to you on the battlements. The memory alone crushes my heart with an iron grip. I do not know how I could even think of – No, I will not try to find reasons now. It is unforgivable-“ Bilbo interrupted him desperately: “You foolish dwarf. All is long forgiven. I could see in your eyes that it wasn’t you, but rather the sickness talking and acting. Don’t agitate yourself even more, it will only make your heart beat faster.” “So, all is well between us?”, asked Thorin unsteadily, hope shining through the pain that filled his eyes. Bilbo nodded slightly, mindful of the concussion that he had most likely received from the orc’s hit before. “All is well.”

He tried in vain to smile for Thorin’s sake. “Then, if you will still have me, I would pledge myself to you before I have to part with this world. It is selfish beyond measure, but I fear what lies before me and knowing that one day we might meet again-“ He coughed, his whole body trembling from the force of it and the first blood speckled his lips. He did not have much time. Gathering his thoughts, Bilbo replied breathlessly: “Yes, my heart, yes.” The true smile that spread over Thorin’s face was beautiful and Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. “I did not dare to hope after what happened”, breathed Thorin. “You will have to aid me. I do not think that I am able to move enough to reach my pocket. I have kept it, although in my mind, I already thought everything lost.” His voice was filled with emotion, his soul bared. Bilbo was too moved to answer and instead busied himself with reaching under the leather on Thorin’s right side. 

He must have moved too much, for Thorin groaned, his voice deep from pain. Bilbo jerked, but then concentrated on the task at hand. His eyes had not left Thorin’s face since the latter had smiled so endearingly and he forced himself to remain as such; - holding Thorin’s left hand carefully – when he felt the warm stickiness under his hand. He didn’t linger though and quickly reached into the pocket, finding a silken ribbon which Thorin had to have bought during their stay in Laketown. He carefully drew his hand back and tried not to contemplate how somebody who had lost such an amount of blood could still be breathing. Another coughing fit rattled Thorin’s body and his hand cramped around Bilbo’s. More blood stained his lips. It hurt Bilbo to see him like that and yet, fretting about it would not help them. They would need to be quick. Time was against them. 

After the fit had ended, he carefully touched Thorin’s face to get his attention and when their eyes met, he began to recite the vow that he had been taught when he had still been a wee lad. “I take you, my heart, at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars. To love and to honour through all that may come. Through all our lives together, in all our lives, may we be reborn that we may meet and know and love again.” While he spoke, Bilbo delicately wove the stained silk around their touching left hands and fastened it. He smiled at the love that lay in Thorin’s gaze. The latter took a shallow breath and quietly repeated the words Bilbo had said and to Bilbo it felt as if his heart was about to burst from the sheer love that resonated with them. He lifted their joined hands slightly and bowed forwards, never breaking eye-contact, and lightly kissed them. And while he did so, he could see how the last breath left Thorin. The pulse under his right hand, with which he had cupped Thorin’s face after tying their hands together, stopped and the king under the mountain was no more. Bilbo had started to cry then and his tears had fallen on Thorin’s lifeless body and disappeared in his chain-mail. 

The dark blue silk ribbon, though, nearly black from the blood stains, stayed wrapped tightly around Bilbo’s left wrist after he had cut it. One half remained with Thorin, tucked under the sleeve of his left arm and the healers had been none the wiser when they had found it while preparing him for the burial. And neither had anyone else been, except for Balin who had given Bilbo a tap on the shoulder and a knowing smile. The company meanwhile had come to the conclusion that Fíli and Kíli must have known. And Dáin had wondered aloud whether one should search for the missing betrothed and decided to include it in his letter to his cousin, Thorin’s sister. Bilbo had been too dazed to follow the conversations closely. Since he had been with Thorin during his last minutes and because of his “fragile nature” (according to Dáin), he had been given a wide berth, though, and no one had questioned him.


	2. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remembers coming home to Back-End after his one-year-long journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,  
> thank you for all the kudos. I'd never guessed that people would like this.  
> Once more, hover text will be displayed if you hover over the Gaelic bits and the flowers.  
> I used the current [meanings](http://www.clareflorist.co.uk/meanings.asp), so please bear with me. Sadly, the page I used before that which featured 18th/19th century-meanings was taken down. u.u

Alas, many seasons had passed since then. Bilbo had stayed to see the great Thorin Oakenshield buried in the depths of the mountain, Erebor’s very heart. There, he would lie forever, surrounded by his brave nephews who had fallen fighting with him against the hoards of goblins and Orcs. The accursed Arkenstone had been laid upon his chest and even the elven king had paid his respect by finally returning Orcrist to him, which now would forever shine if danger approached the kingdom under the mountain. What a depressing ending for their great tale. Dwarves, elves and men had been united at Thorin's the grave, but the one, whose greatest desire it had been to return his ancestors’ halls, was dead. 

Even over five years later anger still welled up inside Bilbo, when he thought about the circumstances of Thorin’s death. “Confounded dwarf!”, he spat out once more. It had become quite the ritual for him when thinking of Thorin. “Reckless!” Taking only three with him to storm what had been obviously the Orcs' stronghold. Who but Oakenshield would come up with such a fine idea; bringing both of his nephews with him? How selfish and reckless. Bilbo shuddered when he recalled the memory of the grieving Tauriel, slowly descending the snow-clad stairs leading to the watch tower, carrying her deceased lover. At least, that was what Bilbo had gathered from later conversations with her while they rode through Mirkwood. Only on Kíli’s death bed they had been able to admit their love for each other; when it had been too late. He did not know what had happened to Tauriel afterwards, whether she had found consolation or given in to her grief. Only seldom he wrote letters to Erebor and the elf maiden was no concern of theirs. In the end, though, Bilbo could not fault Thorin for his nephews’ deaths. He doubted that it would have ended differently, if they had remained on the battlefield. Maybe it would have been even more tragic. Such a waste of life. 

It had only taken the one battle to cure Bilbo of his Tookish side entirely, at least for a long time to come. So much despair and death all around him had shaken him to the core. Never mind what others may say; war was not a thing you could just forget. Sometimes, in his sleep, Bilbo could still hear the cries of those who had been dying all around him while he invisibly made his way to the Ravenhill. He was rather sure that he would still be able to remember their anguish and fear even at the end of his own days. His neighbours could scoff as much as they wanted when he told his stories to the children at parties. He knew that his journey had changed him in more ways than one and that the other hobbits saw it, even when they tried to deny it. 

He remembered darkly the chattering and gossiping behind his back when they thought that he wasn’t listening. (Of course that had been after he had proven that he was indeed still alive and very much so.) It had all started with Mister Grubbs question whom the person, whose bold signature declared Bilbo’s claim of being himself to be true, had been. How very inconsiderate to question someone returning after a year-long absence before they had entered their own home for the first time in months. Bilbo had been taken aback by such rudeness. How very unhobbitish. Especially coming from someone who worked as a lawyer and was supposed to know the etiquette of those things. Truly, for a moment he hadn’t been sure whether respectability had lost its worth in one short year. Of course, that had not been the case, as he had to discover later. 

Bilbo’s answer though hadn’t quenched the hobbits’ thirst for information. Especially not when one of them had spotted the ribbon around his wrist that had been unintentionally revealed. His left sleeve must have ridden up while pushing the door to his home open. She had cried out: “Is fearr posta é!” (Bilbo was quite sure it had been Lobelia. But he had faced the door so he couldn’t be sure. After all, the shout had been so highly pitched in disbelief.) And suddenly all interest in whether he really was alive or even himself had been forgotten. Bilbo had ignored the wondering behind him and gone into his home, closing the door to shut out their voices.  


~*~

It had only been the beginning, though. During the following weeks, he had received so many letters from concerned (and simply nosy) members of his extended family and hadn’t been able to go outside without someone trying to make him spill. In fact, even now, years later, Lobelia Sackheim-Baggins, that dreadful woman, still tried to coax him into telling her. (Which of course would never work. But he had worked hard to regain his respectability and as such he had to endure her visits.) One would think the woman would give up at some point. It was not as if it concerned her anymore. Among the first things Bilbo had done (after re-acquiring his furniture), was visiting his cousins at the Great , and and setting up his last will, effectively cutting Lobelia, or rather Lotho, out of the line of succession for Bag-End. Coming home to find his furnishings being auctioned off once was quite enough, thank you very much. Not that that part of the will necessary nowadays. For one, he was quite sure he’d never stay away that long ever again; once was enough; and there was also Isengrim. His perfect son would inherit his beloved Bag-End one day. He smiled at that thought. It would be many years till then.


	3. Of ancient lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes a decision and we learn about the ancient lore of the Shirefolk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Thank you again for the kudos. And O.M.S., 600 hits in under twelve hours!? You people are mad.^^  
> As before, translations and[ flower meanings](http://www.clareflorist.co.uk/meanings.asp) can be discovered by hovering over the text. And I still cannot speak Gaelic. So, please, if you know it and something is wrong, tell me :)

~*~

The hobbits of the Shire in general were a merry people, for they loved good food and comfort and dance and song and of course other hobbits. And an occasional faery, or elf or man, at least that was what was rumoured on the quiet. (Naturally, those were truly only rumours. People tend to gossip a lot when everything is calm.) And hobbits usually loved so fiercely that they could love only once. Divorces and remarriages were unheard of in the Shire and it was good like that. If you didn’t deeply and truly love someone, you didn’t marry him or her. It wasn’t done. Although outsiders often tried to see behind that and discussed that it just couldn’t be like that – How would the hobbits have remained the same in numbers over all those centuries? – hobbits knew the reason behind their tradition.

Back in the olden days, when everything had been new and fresh and Yavanna had just sung them into being, she had seen how alone and empty they were. Inspired by her husband’s attempt to create life (whom she still had not forgiven at that point in time), she gave the hobbits the ability to find a love as great as hers and Aulë’s. For their love was great, make no mistake. It even lasted after Aulë’s deep betrayal when he hadn’t been able to wait anymore and carved the dwarvish forefathers from stone. Somewhere, every single one of the hobbits had an anam cara, a soul friend, who was believed to be the perfect person to be with, once you’ve found them. Of course, no one could be completely sure, if they had truly found their soul friend, when they fell in love. But it was said that one simply wasn’t able to fall in love with anyone else than that. Thus, each pair that announced their love for each other was deemed blessed by the people of the Shire. 

Although it sometimes took years for a couple to find each other, unmarried hobbits of higher age were oddities. It was what Bilbo had been before he went on that trip of his. And some nasty people even sneered, after Bilbo had come back (when they thought, Bilbo wouldn’t hear them): “Is Is léir a hoax. Mar sin, is féidir leis a glaoch féin respectable arís!”And others murmured:“Sa chás go bhfuil a chroí ansin, má tá sé pósta fíor?” One simply was not trustworthy and thus not respectable if one did not have his or her heart (as the Shirefolk called them).

~*~

Meanwhile, Bilbo had never spoken of his heart, and still wore what could only be a hand fasting-ribbon. And in the eyes of his neighbours, that meant Bilbo had to be still waiting for his betrothed who had most likely forsaken him. For who would not want to marry immediately after they had realised their love? After all, ribbons were only for the betrothal ceremony; not to be kept as a token. The hobbits had rings for that. Only the ivy that had started to grow next to the front door and later the primroses, the marigold and in summer the pink heather confused them. It was concluded that it most likely was all a fraud and that the Baggins of Bad-End had gone mad on his travels. 

~*~

In the winter after his return, Bilbo made up his mind. He had been mourning Thorin for a year. When the days shortened, the temperature sunk and the first snow fell, Bilbo was reminded of his keen loss even more. He could still feel the harsh icy floor beneath his knees, from when he had held Thorin. It had been so much alike to the cold that permeated even through the thick walls of his smial, despite the warm fire that licked merrily at the wood in his study’s fireplace. Hot like the precious blood that had left Thorin’s body and spilled onto his leg. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared into the flames.

When he had gone out that morning to collect his post, quickly throwing on the same coat he had worn on his way back, he had found the acorn again. He had completely forgotten about it. It just hadn’t seemed important anymore and thus remained in his coat’s pocket. 

When the young messenger service hobbit had greeted him with a happy “Good morning, Mr. Baggins! Any letters for me?” Bilbo had dutifully answered: ”Good morning to you, too, my lad. What a fine morning indeed. And yes, in fact, I have some. If you’d be so kind to take them with you to Bywater, I’d be very grateful.” He had reached in his right-hand side pocket of his coat, into which he had put them for convenience, when his fingertips had brushed against something hard. Deciding that it was unimportant, he had taken the letters out of the pocket and exchanged them for the new letters which the messenger had in the meanwhile pulled out of his bag. With a nod, the lad had said: “till tomorrow, Mr. Baggins. Have a nice day.” Bilbo had reciprocated that and then gone to sit on the bench in front of his house to reading his letters in the rays of the winter sun.

~*~

Much later, the cold had forced him to go back into his smial, had he remember the thing in his pocket. Carefully he had put his hand into the latter and grasped it. It had been the aforementioned acorn which had to have slipped into the seam connecting the overcoat with the inner lining during his journey. He had touched it lightly, awed that it still was fresh and slightly green. It must have been due to the magic that had seeped into it while it grew on the oak tree near Beorn’s house and he had fondly recalled his time there.

Soon though, his mind had drifted to that one evening when Thorin had caught him off-guard before his banishment from the mountain. When suddenly the real Thorin had shown through the mist of paranoia and madness that had engulfed him. His soul and emotions completely revealed in that astonishing smile he had given Bilbo. And at once, Bilbo had been harshly reminded that he seen it only twice and would never see it again. The thought alone had crushed his heart anew and his further day had been spent indoors. 

And now he sat at the fire contemplating what to do. He missed Thorin fiercely and his whole being ached. Before he had never considered it, but finding the acorn had turned his thoughts to a very specific path. He knew that the void Thorin’s death had left would and could never be filled. But maybe it was time to let go and devote his focus to something different than his own depression. The other hobbits that had cut him, only becoming more social with him, because of his wealth, could not satisfy his need for company and many a day, he had been tempted to turn to the old lore. 

Alas, somehow he had always talked himself out of it. Moreover, he hadn’t had a suitable síol croí. Or something which did have the right properties to become such. When he had examined the acorn earlier and noticed its freshness, despite the year and a half that had passed since its picking, he had been convinced that it must have been a sign, a blessing by the Green Lady herself. How else would it have survived for such a long time? And Bilbo knew that he would do it; fall back to one of the oldest traditions of his people, rarely used anymore due to the dangers that went with it. He would wait until it was the end of Astron until he would plant the acorn. In his inner eye, he could see the great red oak from which he had taken it. As such, the acorn would need the months of cold either way before it could be given to the earth. Bilbo took it out of his chest pocket and held it tightly, the first smile in over year blooming on his features. It would not make him forget Thorin’s death, but maybe he would not feel so lonely anymore. 


	4. A dying man needs to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin awakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there,  
> thank you again for all the hits, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks. I feel honoured!  
> As before, the translations can be found by hovering over the words. It needs to be said that my Khuzdul is as awesome as my Gaelic, meaning non-existent. If there's a mistake, please tell me. Neo-khuzdul is just such a complicated mess. Please note that this is also the extent of what I'm intending to do with Khuzdul. You may pretend that the dwarves continue to talk to each in their secret language while they are within the safe walls of Erebor. Maybe, someday I'll try to translate the whole conversations, but definitely not now.

> A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.  
>  \- Stewart Alsop

~*~

A long forgotten fact about the dwarves is that they were created by Aulë when Melkor still wandered in Arda. Death and destruction were the latter's chosen trade, fear and hate his greatest delight. Thus, Aulë decided to make his creations a hardy people. As harsh and unyielding as the stone from which they had come. From the Western shores to the Eastern jungles, from the icy North to the burning deserts in the South, nowhere could thinking beings be found who could withstand more than the dwarves. Neither thirst nor hunger nor great wounds or any other hardships affected them in the ways they affected the other races living in Arda. And it was good like that for they would be the ones to rebuild Arda after the end of all days.

The dwarves of Middle-Earth came from the stone and they were stone. And like stone hides the precious minerals and metals inside itself, the dwarves hid the secrets they had been taught by their maker before Eru had come to him. They treasured the languages, which Aulë had constructed and shared with their forefathers while he had carved them from the strongest bedrock deep beneath the mountains, like the finest mithril. Jealously they guarded their culture and their trade and only the works of the High-elven smiths could contest with the dwarvish creations. 

~*~

When Thorin Oakenshield awoke, he did not know how much time had passed. He could not recall how he had come to lie on the soft mattress. His memories were hazy and his head felt as if he had slept for too long. Bone-deep weariness made his whole body feel as heavy as lead. Experimentally, he tried to tighten his fists, only to discover that his hands would not heed his command. With much effort, he opened his eyes, but all he could see were vague shapes in the dark. “-Thorin!”, he heard a voice exclaim on what was probably his right side. Slowly, awareness spread out through his whole body. He thought that he could feel a hand carefully grasping his right shoulder. The voice seemed to continue talking to him, yet he could not understand a word of what was being said. Although he felt as if he had slept for a very long time, he closed his eyes again and drifted back into sleep.

~*~

The next time Thorin woke, everything was much clearer. His memories were slowly returning and he could remember the battle which had taken place. He mused on who had survived and what had happened to Azog. They had to have won in the end, or he wouldn't be enjoying such comforts as the bed beneath him. He wondered what had happened to himself. He must have been grievously wounded, if he still could not remember anything of what had occurred after they had joined Dáin on the battlefield. Once again he tried to use his hands and this time they co-operated. He sluggishly raised his arms and rubbed his eyes, before opening them. His eyesight seemed to have returned completely and he mentally thanked Mahal for that. 

Thorin let his gaze wander until it came to rest upon the chair which sat on the right-hand side of the bed he was lying on. A sleeping Dwalin was sprawled all over it in a way that made Thorin feel uncomfortable by just looking at him. A rare sight indeed, normally Dwalin would never sleep if he was on guard duty. And what else could it be. However, deciding to savour the silence, Thorin relished in the sense of the stone around him. How different it was from the lifeless and broken walls of his halls in Ered Luin. Even though, Erebor had slept for over a century, the stone was still soaked with the bristling lives of his people. For the stone never forgot and even a dragon could not dampen the lives of thousands of dwarves who had lived within it. He shifted his sight back to the ceiling above himself and in wonder, he noticed the fine carvings which decorated it. They were so familiar to him, even though he had not looked upon them for nearly two centuries. His musing were interrupted by a rather loud ”Mahal akhminruki astû!” and an even louder ”Oín ai-oy!”. 


	5. Where there is love, there is life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin contemplates his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Guys, I'm so amazed by you. I'd never dreamt to get such a massive feedback.  
> Thank you all, whether you have subscribed, bookmarked, kudoed, commented on or simply read this story.  
> Well, and since I couldn't bring myself to leave you hanging for another two weeks (It's the end of the semester here, so exams, yikes -.-), I decided to gift you another bit of Thorin. I know it's not long, but it simply doesn't fit with the next scenes. So, enjoy, and thank you again.

> Where there is love, there is life  
>  \- Mahatma Ghandi

~*~

Thorin stood on the battlements which had been rebuilt during the year he had spent in the stone. Once more Durín, the Deathless and Thraín I greeted those who pleaded entrance to the mountain king’s halls. The best stone carvers had heeded to the princess regent’s call and created the wonders of the old anew. When Thorin had laid his eyes on the great gates for the first time, he had been reminded of how they had looked before the dragon had destroyed them in his gold lust. His awe at the lustre his people had recreated had soon made way for his despair. Clearly, Thorin could recall the fear and heartbreak in his burglar’s eyes. A heart-break that he had felt himself during that moment, combined with the fury at being so obviously betrayed, but the only one whom he had still trusted. 

And now, the hobbit was gone, had returned to his beloved Shire and Thorin bore the burden of his own betrayal. Never would he be able to reconcile with Bilbo, for he knew what he had done on that horrible morning, more than a year ago, could never be forgiven. Alas, he himself would never forgive it. There were many aspects of the Dwarvish culture that were so complicated that an outsider would spend years to understand them fully. One part was absolutely clear though. It was most sacred and every dwarf learned as soon as he or she was able to understand it. 

To raise your hand against another’s One, meant the other’s partner had the right to demand gree. Raising the hand against your own One, meant that your One could demand your beard and hair, or, in case of marriage, demand a divorce without anyone asking for the reasons or your One being shamed afterwards. Killing your One, though. In all of dwarven history, there had been only a few recorded cases and usually they had ended with the offending dwarf either being exiled or shamed for the rest of his or her life. (The sentence lay with the One.) 

“Your One is a gift from the Maker and those unworthy of it, are unworthy of their life” even the littlest were taught. Usually, dwarves who had purposely killed their Ones either descended into madness or committed suicide. (Suicide was the greatest sin one could commit against Eru Illúvatr and Mahal in the eyes of the dwarves. For only because of the mercy Eru had shown Mahal, they were allowed to continue to live. To kill oneself shamed the great sacrifice that Mahal had been willing to bring, when Eru had questioned him. It was said, that dwarves who had died by their own hand, would once more turn into the stone they had been made from and never be allowed to enter Mandos’ Halls.)

While Thorin had not murdered his One, it had been a close call. He was sure that Bilbo would not have seen the end of that fateful day, had not Gandalf intervened. How terrible a thought. Thorin leant over the battlements’ railing, looking into the darkness below him. The impact would have killed his burglar instantly. Thorin’s weary mind began to conjure up connotations of the hobbit’s head colliding with the unforgiving ground, the delicate bones of his neck giving in. He had heard the sick sound of a neck breaking so often in his life. He winced.  
And yet, Eru had deemed him worthy enough to return from the stone. The reason still eluded him. He had reclaimed the ancient halls and most possibly given the Durin’s folk new hope, but others had done thusly, too. However, they had not returned. How was he to live with that ever-present guilt which slowly eroded his soul? His own weakness had cost him everything. His life, his nephew and first and foremost, his very heart. For, although Kíli had awoken on Durín’s Day one year after the battle, Fíli had not. He would never hear Kíli’s joyful laughter intermingle with his brother’s more sombre one again. Like his own golden brother, Fíli had lost his life due to Thorin. He should have never allowed either of them to join him in battle. Both had been far too young and inexperienced to face the insanity that defined war. He had heard from Dwalin that they both had watched Fíli being murdered by Azog, but the head injury he had suffered had been so severe that even time could not mend it. Maybe this was not Eru’s blessing, but his punishment. Not being able to remember the death of Thorin’s own nephew or his own. 

When Thorin had asked how he himself had died, Dwalin had shrugged and told him that only Bilbo had been with him. That he’d already been dead when Dwalin had reached Thorin. “If ye can’t recall it now, ye never will”, Oín had said. Maybe it was good like that. It quenched his hopes that Bilbo and he had reconciled at his deathbed. It made the loss easier to bear, for how much worse it would have been, had Bilbo forgiven and then abandoned him nonetheless. Thorin didn’t dare thinking of it. Truly, what the dwarves of Erebor called a blessing by the Valar, was a curse in disguise. Thorin knew that Kíli had not fared better than him before he had set out to Mirkwood in hopes of finding Tauriel. 

Never would Thorin forgive himself for bringing that much grief into the life of one so young. In the end, he had killed both of his nephews. Not by his own hand, but through his actions. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Original prompt on the hobbit kink_meme:**  
>     
> Unbeknowst to the rest of Middle-earth, both hobbits and dwarves are capable of reproducing in, well, unusual ways - that is, hobbit children can literally be grown in the garden, while dwarf babies can be carved from stone. It isn't necessarily the only or even a particularly common way to go about these things, but it is possible.
> 
> At the end of Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo returns to the Shire, convinced that Thorin is dead. Meanwhile, Thorin recovers from his injuries only to find that his hobbit has apparently left him, not that he deserves any less after what he did. In their loneliness, both of them turn to the secret ways of their people...
> 
> A few years later, Bilbo and Thorin meet again...
> 
> Bonus points if that happens because Thorin brings his child to the Shire to learn about its hobbit side.


End file.
